


Gotta Know How it Feels

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Charity Auctions, Confessions, First Kiss, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 12:02:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4478615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley can't leave for the Academy without knowing where Riker stands.</p><p>[Charity fic for the lovely <a href="http://hannahcarrietta.livejournal.com/">Hannahcarrietta</a> for <a href="http://fandomaid.livejournal.com/">FandomAid</a>: thank you so much for bidding, hon, I hope you enjoy the story!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gotta Know How it Feels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hannahcarrietta](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=hannahcarrietta).



Wesley's eighteenth birthday is a noisy affair in Ten Forward. The entire crew finds time to stop in—even people Wesley knows for a fact are on duty at this hour—and the hubbub holds all the warm pleasantness of family. Wesley attends in uniform, mostly because the party is supposed to be a surprise and he arrives immediately following his shift on the bridge. But there's also a giddy, little-boy part of him that simply loves to be in uniform. He's been a full ensign for three months thanks to Captain Picard's field commission, and the novelty hasn't come close to wearing thin.

Wesley accepts hugs and gifts and well-wishes for what feels like hours. It seems an eternity before the band members set their instruments aside to take a break—an eternity in which Wesley's attention is split between his own conversations and the swell of music filling the lounge—and it's almost a physical relief when Riker finally approaches him. Wesley grins even wider than he's been smiling all evening when Riker clasps his shoulder in a friendly grip.

"Happy birthday, Wesley." There's fondness and mischief in Riker's eyes, and he's slow to take his hand back. Wesley tries not to read too much into the delay—he's had long practice not getting his hopes up where Will Riker is concerned—but the touch warms him anyway. It's difficult not to stare a moment later, when Riker leans an elbow on the bar, striking a pose so casual it can only be deliberate. The man always was too canny about appearances.

"Thanks, Commander." They're alone now, Wesley realizes abruptly. A shared quiet amid the noisy crowd of Ten Forward. He didn't even notice his other well-wishers retreating.

"We're off duty, Wes," Riker points out with a teasing smile. For the hundredth time Wesley wonders if the spark he catches in the commander's eyes is interest. One can never tell with William T. Riker. The man flirts as easily as breathing.

"Sorry," Wesley amends sheepishly. "Will." He still hasn't gotten used to addressing Riker by his first name. Even the year Wesley's mother was absent from the Enterprise, with all the off-duty hours he and Riker spent together, Wesley still called him _Commander_. 

It's only since Wesley's field commission to full ensign that Riker has started insisting otherwise. 

"Here." Riker hands him a clear cube, small enough to fit in the palm of Wesley's hand. There are three isolinear chips visible inside the small containment cube. "The jazz greats," Riker explains. "Wouldn't want you going without at the Academy." Wesley's chest warms at the easy confidence in Riker's words. He sounds so certain Wesley will pass his oral exams when the time comes, and so sure the Academy is exactly where Wesley belongs. 

"Thank you." Wesley says the words with quiet sincerity.

Riker's answering smile is soft and pleased. There's no hint of mischief now, only warm fondness, and Wesley very much likes the view.

\- — - — - — - — -

Within three days of his party, Wesley convinces himself to come clean, though he talks himself out of confessing at least a dozen times. Will Riker is a difficult man to ignore, but he seems especially determined to drive Wesley to distraction now—hovering close on the bridge and leaning against the conn with familiar carelessness. Riker seems always within reach, and Wesley knows if he doesn't say _something_ , he'll implode.

Even if the idea of honesty terrifies him.

Wesley knows he shouldn't be scared of a candid conversation. After everything he's experienced aboard the Enterprise—after everything he's _survived_ —he should be better than this. Yet he can't deny his trepidation. He could be misreading Riker's warmth, after all. He could be on the verge of making a humiliating spectacle of himself. How awful would it be, to admit his feelings only to face rejection? Riker would be kind, certainly—he would express flattered disinterest with a gentle smile—but their friendship would change in the aftermath, and not for the better. 

Wesley also recognizes how much worse it would be, leaving for the Academy without ever learning if Riker feels the same way he does. Wesley has been eighteen for three days, and if he can't find the fortitude to tell the truth _now_ , then surely he never will.

"Wes, you're early." There's no censure in Riker's voice. He stands in the doorway to his quarters, fond greeting in his sparkling eyes. Riker's not wearing his uniform, but a familiar blue shirt he favors off duty, with sleek fabric and a neckline that dips maddeningly off-center.

"Sorry," Wesley says, feeling self-conscious. He always arrives precisely on time for their games of chess—a weekly tradition they've followed almost without fail for three years—and to arrive early proves just how off-balance Wesley's determination has thrown him.

"Come on in." Riker cocks his head to the side, inviting Wesley across the threshold. Wesley feels jittery and restless as he steps inside Riker's quarters. The chess board stands ready, pieces perfectly aligned. Not a new game, but a continuation of where they stopped last week when a red alert summoned them both to the bridge. For once the familiar room does nothing to calm Wesley. He's wound too tightly. His skin feels too warm, and he keeps having to remind his lungs to do their job. 

The door slides shut with an audible whisper, and Wesley's pulse kicks up an extra notch.

"Everything all right, Wes?" Riker asks. He's suddenly standing at Wesley's side, peering at him with worried eyes as he registers the tension in Wesley's stance. "You seem upset."

Wesley answers, quick and quiet, "I'm not upset. I swear." He may be half a heartbeat from panic—or from simply turning tail and retreating the way he came—but he's not upset. Not even close. "I just... I need to talk to you about something. It's important."

Riker blinks. His eyes widen with obvious surprise, and maybe a hint of confusion.

"All right." Riker glances toward the table and the waiting chess board. "Do you want to sit?" He doesn't offer Wesley a drink. Clearly he understands that whatever has Wesley riled won't wait for a cup of Mareuvian tea. 

"No," Wesley says. A moment later he amends, vaguely flustered, "That is... Thank you. But I'd rather stand." The better for making his escape if this confession goes completely cross-eyed, or if Riker reacts with appalled bewilderment. 

But also better for closing the distance if this conversation goes the way Wesley hopes instead.

And Wesley _does_ hope. He wouldn't be here—wouldn't be prepared to make a complete fool of himself—if Riker hadn't given enough wordless encouragement to make him wonder. Wesley can summon more than a dozen memories to mind: a sharp glimmer in Riker's eye; a moment's proximity held a heartbeat too long; Riker's hand at the small of his back; Riker's smile bright and warm whenever he catches Wesley looking his way. Wesley has caught Riker looking back more than once, with an expression that ignites low-simmering heat beneath his skin. 

Yes, Wesley _does_ hope. But hope isn't enough to quiet the instinctive fear of rejection, or to ease his nerves as he draws a steadying breath. The expression on Riker's face has taken a turn towards concern again, and Riker's eyes are shadowed with worry as he watches Wesley intently.

"You sure you're all right?"

"Yes," Wesley insists. "Fine." He draws an even slower breath, gathering his thoughts, and opens his mouth to explain.

The words refuse to come out.

Riker is watching expectantly, patiently, and Wesley tries again. Again the words don't come, and Wesley closes his mouth, swallows, curses himself silently. He's already resolved to confess. _I'm in love with you_. A truth so painfully bright in his chest that Wesley finds it hard to believe his friends and crew mates haven't already caught him out. Why are the words themselves so damn hard to say?

"Wes," Riker starts, an eloquent furrow crinkling his brow.

Wesley doesn't try his luck a third time. He's too embarrassed and aware the result will be the same. Instead he closes his eyes, leans in, and steals a kiss that warms him all the way down to his toes. 

A panic-stricken eternity elapses in half a dozen heartbeats. Wesley doesn't dare open his eyes. He doesn't dare draw back. He's frozen in place, caught in the desperate instant before judgment falls, bringing a final verdict of satisfaction or rejection.

Then Riker breathes a sound both startled and pleased, a brief hum of approval, and his hands rise to frame Wesley's face. Relief hits Wesley squarely in the chest in that moment, as the kiss transforms from rigid startlement into something reciprocated. Riker's advantage in height hardly matters when he crowds into Wesley's space, and Wesley's head spins with a potent rush of heat.

It figures Riker is an excellent kisser. As soon as Wesley has any brain cells to spare he'll probably be jealous over the revelation. For now he can't hold onto a single coherent thought. He's caught in a maelstrom of sensation, greedy and eager and grateful.

The kiss ends too soon. One moment Wesley is soaring high, the next Riker draws away. Wesley's eyes open to see Riker's arms fall to his sides. Riker's expression is winded shock, his posture stiff as he takes a single backward step. Riker's mouth opens as though he intends to offer some reply, but he doesn't speak. Frozen by the force of his surprise, maybe. Wesley certainly wouldn't blame him.

Wesley's own voice unlocks now—belatedly and with painful honesty—and he hears himself say in an awkward rush, "I think I'm in love with you." 

A moment's silence stretches for what feels like an eon, but eventually Riker manages to echo, "You _think_."

"No," Wesley realizes aloud, "I _don't_ think. I know I'm in love with you." He swallows thickly, and adds in a softer voice, "I guess I'm just trying to figure out if you feel the same." 

The way Riker averts his eyes is almost a confirmation in itself, and Wesley's heart gives a hard twinge. Riker's gaze is restless, trailing over furniture, the waiting chess board, the stars rushing past outside. More than anything Riker looks like he's been caught with a secret, and the fragile ember of hope in Wesley's chest blazes to life.

Without looking at him, Riker finally says, "Wesley, you have to understand... Even if I did feel the same, I couldn't..." It's strange to see the commander lost for words. It takes Riker several seconds longer to finish, "It would be inappropriate."

"Why?" Wesley asks. Ridiculous as the question is, at least it makes Riker _look_ at him again. Exasperation and bafflement color Riker's expression, turning it into something that could be humorous in any other context. Wesley may understand perfectly well all the reasons Riker might turn him down— _even if_ —but he's not going to accept them without debate.

"Surely you don't need me to spell this out for you," Riker protests. Wesley takes it as a good sign that the commander hasn't retreated clear across the room. Riker still stands so near Wesley could touch him if he reached out. 

Wesley stands carefully motionless and insists, "Humor me." 

Riker sighs—actually _sighs_. He sounds strained and a little put-upon, but he answers sincerely. "I'm first officer of the Enterprise, Wes. I'm not going to get romantically involved with a subordinate."

"Starfleet regulations don't forbid fraternization. Only misuse of authority. There's no reason we can't—"

"I'm twice your age," Riker interrupts, but his second volley does even less to convince Wesley than the first.

"I don't care about that."

"Your _mother_ might," Riker retorts smoothly.

Wesley only shakes his head. "She doesn't get a vote. They're _my_ feelings." Then, because he knows better than to let solid ammunition go to waste, he adds, "Besides, now that I'm eighteen, she's got no standing to interfere with my decisions. It's my life." Wesley spent a long time figuring out his mother _doesn't_ always know best, and he's not going to let Riker use her as an excuse to retreat from difficult questions. 

They could go in circles like this for hours, though. Wesley doesn't relish the thought of an impasse, so instead he takes a calculated step back. Squares his shoulders. Meets Riker's stare with a determined look.

"You don't have to answer now. Just think about it, okay? I can wait." Wesley's smile is hesitant but genuine when he adds, "You know where to find me."

His hasty retreat is more strategic than sheepish. He's halfway down the hall before he remembers to breathe. 

Wesley knows his words have hit Riker hard, and he needs to put some distance between them now, before Riker conjures more counter-arguments to throw his way. He needs Riker to really stew over the possibilities and reach his own conclusion. There are no guarantees Wesley will like Riker's final decision, but it's still the best chance he's got of winning this debate. 

Riker is definitely interested. Not just interested—Wesley has no doubts now regarding Riker's feelings for him. The commander is an honest man. He wouldn't be conflicted if his feelings didn't run deep.

Which means Wesley can only wait for him to come around.

\- — - — - — - — -

Wesley waits for a solid week, a test of patience that nearly drives him mad. Riker doesn't interact with him off-duty, and they barely look at each other on the bridge. Wesley doesn't take the avoidance for rejection; Riker would communicate the point directly rather than letting this uncertainty linger. The longer their silent standoff lasts, the stronger Wesley's hope grows.

He doesn't visit Riker's quarters on their usual evening for chess. He takes himself to Ten Forward instead, sitting distractedly at the bar and biding his time. 

"You look about five thousand lightyears away." Guinan hands Wesley a drink he didn't order, something bubbly and clear that she sets on the counter in front of his clasped hands. "Everything all right?"

"Fine," Wesley says, and it's not precisely a lie. He lifts the drink and takes a slow sip. The clear liquid is crisp and sweet, and it tickles his nose a little. He keeps his fingers curled around the narrow glass when he sets it down again, enjoying the cool condensation. "Just waiting for someone."

Guinan's knowing expression sharpens in an instant, and it's all the warning Wesley gets before the stool beside him is abruptly occupied. The rest of the bar stools are empty—Ten Forward isn't particularly crowded tonight—and Wesley turns his head, tries to read Riker's answer in the deliberate blank of his profile. 

"Can I get you anything, Commander?" Guinan's voice is almost teasing, and Riker's eyes narrow as he shakes his head no. Guinan throws one last glance at Wesley, a look of bald curiosity, then she disappears to the opposite end of the bar. Her absence leaves Riker and Wesley as much alone as Ten Forward allows.

"You're right," Riker says at last. He's looking straight ahead, but his voice is pitched low for Wesley's ears alone. "No one else gets a vote. And Starfleet regulations don't expressly prohibit relationships that cross the chain of command." 

Wesley bites his tongue to keep from badgering Riker with questions. Watching Riker as closely as he is, it's obvious the commander isn't finished.

When Riker turns to look Wesley in the eye, his expression holds a molten mix of heat, fondness and piercing questions. "Are you sure this is what you want, Wes?" 

"Yes," Wesley answers, keeping his voice low to match Riker's. "I mean... That is... If it's what _you_ want." He feels wild and hopeful when he asks, "Is it?"

Then Riker smiles—wide and warm and disbelieving—and answers, "God yes."

" _Good_ ," Wesley breathes, and doesn't care that he's grinning like an idiot. 

"Come on." Riker rises from his stool. "We've still got that game of chess to finish." 

"You're on, Commander." Wesley grins wider and follows him out the door.


End file.
